


Which Mannerly Devotion Shows In This

by edenbound



Series: shanaqui's Comfortember Fics [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Holding Hands, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:28:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27580709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenbound/pseuds/edenbound
Summary: On the bus home from Tadfield.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: shanaqui's Comfortember Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015975
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54
Collections: Comfortember 2020





	Which Mannerly Devotion Shows In This

**Author's Note:**

> For Comfortember prompt #2, "first day/night".
> 
> ETA: Someone made me a "cover" for this one! Thank you so much to kingstoken on Dreamwidth for this:

"So..." Aziraphale says, clasping his hands between his knees. He's refusing to look at the scenery outside, even though the bus driver is proceeding at a perfectly reasonable pace considering somehow he's got to drive to London and back before he can finish. "That's it. We've... burned our bridges. This is our first day on our own, really on our own."

"Yep," Crowley says, because that seems safe. He's distracted quite significantly by the fact that Aziraphale has chosen to sit _right next to him_ , so that the angel's thigh is pressed up against his. It's a flagrant breach of all their careful rules and, of course, it doesn't matter anymore. It probably doesn't mean anything, but Crowley can't help but try to parse it out. Does Aziraphale _want_ to be touching him? Is this just some kind of comfort thing? Maybe he hasn't even noticed?

"I don't know how you can sound so calm," Aziraphale says, bafflingly, but there's a waver in his voice which Crowley knows well. It's just, right now, tired and dirty and practically kippered by the dying flames of his beloved car, Crowley can't think of a thing to say in response to it, so he looks down at his own hands.

He feels Aziraphale turn to look at him.

"Ah," he says, and this time the note in his voice is something else -- revelatory, almost, like... like when he first tried gingerbread. It's a stupid memory to be popping into Crowley's head right now, when he should be turning his mind to how they get away with this, or at least to how to soothe the distress proclaimed by every line of Aziraphale's body. Gingerbread, of all the things -- but he'd been so surprised, so pleased by it, and that's what he sounds like now, for some reason that Crowley can't understand at all.

"Ah?" he echoes.

Aziraphale doesn't say anything. There's a faint rustle and then Aziraphale's reaching across and -- and wrapping his fingers round one of Crowley's wrists. He tugs gently. Confused, Crowley lets Aziraphale lift his hand, and then an embarrassing noise gets stuck in his throat as Aziraphale's fingers fold around his. For some reason he is hyper-aware of the ring on Aziraphale's little finger, the warm gold against his skin. There's a line of Shakespeare, and fuck, Crowley's forgotten which play it's from but maybe humans have it right when they think Shakespeare has a quotation for every occasion. _If I profane with my unworthiest hand..._

Aziraphale lets out a breath, though, a noise of relief. "There," he says. "That's better."

"Erk," Crowley says, embarrassingly. Aziraphale squeezes his hand.

"We're not really on our own. No more than we were before. It's not as though Heaven has been there for me, all these years."

"No," Crowley says. Or is that meant to be yes? He doesn't want to say anything that makes Aziraphale realise what he's doing and pull away. This is a contingency Crowley has never imagined, and it sets his stupid corporation's heart racing.

"You've been so good to me."

"Angel -- "

"Let's just..." Aziraphale makes some kind of gesture, with the hand holding Crowley's, totally indistinct and yet all-encompassing. "Let's just sit like this. Get our breaths back, so to speak. We can put our thinking caps on when we get back to London."

They'll have to talk about it. Crowley can feel that fact looming. They're going to need to talk about all of it, the impending wrath of Heaven and Hell, _and_ the handholding. But just for now, they can just sit like this. Get their breaths back. While their hands touch like this, fingers intertwined, and a mad part of Crowley's brain won't stop saying it over and over again: _and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss._

**Author's Note:**

> The play, of course, is Romeo & Juliet.


End file.
